The girl behind the cash register arched her eyebrows. “That’s her? That’s your sister?”
His mom was always going on about people in small towns, how everybody knew everybody and looked out for each other. He couldn’t explain he didn’t want people to know him without going into the reasons why, so he just nodded.
Emily selected an ice cream bar, letting the freezer door thump shut. Zack watched her peel back the paper.
“She doesn’t look like you,” observed the cashier.
No, she didn’t. Emily took after their father, Ben: warm brown eyes, warm brown skin, warm, wide smile.
“I’m adopted.”
“You’re kidding.”
Zack lifted one shoulder in a shrug. He didn’t care if she believed him or not.
She blinked her purple-lidded eyes. “Seriously? Because some days I wish I was adopted. I used to pretend that my parents, my real parents, my fabulously wealthy real parents who lived in, like, the Bahamas or New York City or someplace . . . Anyway, I used to imagine that one day they’d show up and take me away and give me everything I ever wanted. A pony. A canopy bed. A scholarship to Harvard.”
He bet nobody in this crappy town on this godforsaken rock in the middle of the ocean ever went to Harvard.
“You want a pony,” he repeated.
“I want to get off World’s End,” she said frankly. “I want choices in my life.”
Her gaze met his and something sparked. Attraction. Recognition.
He didn’t have any choices either.
“It’s fine if you’re a guy,” the girl added. She nodded toward the snack aisle, where a couple of dudes in flannel shirts loaded up on corn chips and meat byproducts. “Guys work stern for their fathers until they make enough dough to go out on their own. But if you’re a girl, there’s nothing to do here but raise babies or clean houses.”
“You could still work for your father,” Zack said. His mom was big on equal opportunity shit.
“I do. I’m Stephanie Wiley.” In response to his blank look, she added, “Wiley’s Grocery? George Wiley is my dad.”
“Zack Rodriguez.”
“I know. Your mom’s the new doctor, right? You’re a . . . senior?”
“Sophomore.”
“I’m a junior.” She studied him a moment, making him conscious of his big nose and his awkward height and his lack of a driver’s license. She smiled. “Close enough.”
He stared back, his heart pounding. Close enough for what?
An elbow jabbed him hard in the back. “Whatever you’re selling, Stephanie, faggot boy isn’t buying.”
Shit.
Just . . . Shit.
Zack turned to face the two guys from the snack aisle, crowding behind him.
The girl sighed. “Jesus, Todd. Could you be a bigger prick?”
“Why don’t you look and find out?” he invited.
His companion snickered.
Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Ignore these morons. They have limited intelligence and even smaller . . . vocabularies.”
They didn’t need a big vocabulary to get their message across. Zack read it in their hostile looks, their fat, freckled faces, clear as a posted warning: No Trespassing. Keep Out.
Fine by him. He wasn’t here to make friends.
He dropped a ten on the counter.
“Summer people,” sneered the shorter of the two guys. “Throwing your money around.”
“Shut up, Doug,” the girl said. “He’s one of us.”
But he wasn’t. He couldn’t ever be one of them. That was his problem.
The familiar bubble of panic swelled in his chest, squeezing his lungs until he couldn’t breathe.
He pocketed his change and left.
Morgan of the finfolk leaned against a pillar at the back of the small dark church, chafing against his human form and the need that drove him here. He was still stretched thin from the long sea crossing, his blood cold, his bones fluid, his very essence draining away through the stones at his feet, dissipating with each exhalation.
He filled his lungs painfully. He belonged on Sanctuary supervising the work of reconstruction. He should not have to abandon his duty and his people to chase their errant lord across the ocean.
But the sea lord, Conn ap Llyr, had bowed to his consort’s desire to attend the birth of her niece on the humans’ island of World’s End.
Morgan had been forced to follow.
Which was how he found himself in this human house of God, an unwilling witness to a baptism.
He stirred restively, stifled by the stink of humanity and the atmosphere inside the church.
The air was thick with angels. He could not breathe. The children of air pressed close around him like the brush of wings against his face, like a weight on his chest, like a blade at his throat.
He drew another painful breath as the priest fumbled with his book. “What name do you give this child?”
“Grace Anne,” her parents answered together.
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. He knew the infant’s father, the selkie Dylan Hunter, newly created warden of this island. The dark-haired woman beside him with the cross around her neck must be the child’s mother.
“And what do you ask of God’s church for Grace Anne?”
“Baptism.”
Morgan curled his lip. The children of the sea did not require the sacraments of men. They were one with the First Creation, elemental, immortal.
Or they had been immortal.
They were dying now. His sister, dead. His people, dying while the sea lord dallied on shore.
Morgan’s hand clenched on the cold stone pillar. A silent howl tore through his chest, strong as anger, bleak as the winter wind through caves of ice. Yet his face remained calm, his gaze fixed on the font. He had not let himself feel anything, even despair, in a very long time.
His gaze flickered over the family in the front pew; narrowed in recognition on the selkie Margred, standing beside her human mate, a big man with a strong jaw and a short haircut. Margred had chosen to live as a human. Age as a human. Die as a human.
Yet she appeared content and even more beautiful than Morgan remembered, secure within the circle of her mate’s arm, her belly swollen with his whelp.
Morgan wondered if their child would be born human or shifter. There was simply no way of knowing until it reached the age of puberty, the time of Change.
“Hope for the future,” Conn called these half-blood offspring.
Perhaps. Morgan shifted his weight, uncomfortable in his own skin, as restive in his own body as a cat tied in a sack, as a shark confined to a tank.
At the dawn of creation, the children of the sea had lived in balance with their fellow elementals, the children of earth, air, and fire. In recent centuries, however, the seas had sickened and the merfolk had declined. As their numbers and their power dwindled, every birth, every loss, assumed deeper significance. When three of their youngest had disappeared last year, even Morgan had winced at the loss.
Perhaps Conn was right. Maybe a closer alliance with humankind would ensure their survival.
His lips tightened as the infant at the front of the church was signed with water and the cross.
And perhaps it would destroy them.
He turned and stalked from the church.
At least outside he could breathe. The shadowed porch was cool and dim. He staggered like a sailor who had been too long at sea. The smell of grass and decay rose from the church yard, carried on a fresh breeze from the sea. To steady himself, he focused on the things of earth, leaning headstones, blowing grass, a tree.
A pair of children, an older boy and a little girl, turned off the main street, ambling along the crumbling asphalt at the side of the road. Something about the boy, the shape of his head or the set of his shoulders, snagged Morgan’s attention. He narrowed his gaze.
Really, the boy seemed almost familiar, tall and wiry, a mop of hair above a lean, watchful face. Morgan had n
ot known many children. Only the whelps on Sanctuary. Perhaps boys, like puppies, were all the same. This one had yet to fill out, to grow into his hands or his wrists, his feet or his nose. But he looked like . . .
Morgan’s pulse quickened.
Almost exactly like . . .
“Iestyn?” Morgan whispered.
But as soon as the name escaped his lips, he damned himself for a fool. This was no missing selkie youth. This boy was bony where Iestyn was lean, black-haired while Iestyn was fair.
And human, the most insurmountable difference of all.
Morgan settled back into the shadows of the porch, ignoring the drumming of his pulse, the tug of instinct or recognition. Obviously, the sea crossing had addled his brain.
Two more boys in faded flannel and jeans turned the corner. They called up the hill, loud as crows. Morgan was too far away to distinguish the words, but the first boy stiffened.
“Faggot.” This time Morgan heard the taunt clearly.
The black-haired boy bent and whispered to the girl, giving her a little push. She cast a quick look over her shoulder and ran, her pink sandals slapping the gravel.
Straightening, the boy turned to face his tormentors.
No coward, then, Morgan thought with approval.
The girl pelted past the church, her small face pink with exertion and excitement. Morgan barely noticed her as he assessed the boy’s chances. Two against one. Not good.
This would be over quickly.
Red Plaid Shirt muscled in like a bull seal on a beach, all weight and noise. The black-haired boy defended himself with knees and elbows. The lad had height, Morgan thought disparagingly, but no real training. His stance was all wrong, his hands open like a child’s.
The ensuing scuffle was too vicious to be called horse-play, too lacking in technique to be termed a fight. The two principals exchanged pushes, jabs, and jibes, while the third boy circled like a runt in a dogfight.
Red Shirt threw a shoulder into the dark boy’s ribs. He staggered back a step, raised both hands, and shoved. Hard.
His attacker flew five feet through the air and crashed on the grassy strip beside the dreaming churchyard.
Well.
The black-haired boy stood breathing hard, spots of color burning in his pale face.
Morgan raised his eyebrows. He had not guessed the skinny lad had such strength in him.
Neither had his assailant, apparently. Red Shirt sprawled on his ass in the weeds, expression stunned, belligerence temporarily knocked out of him. His companion hurried to extend a hand.
Red Shirt waved him off.
The smaller boy frowned. “Todd? Aren’t you gonna . . .”
Todd climbed painfully to his feet.
The black-haired boy braced.
“Nah. He’s not worth it,” Todd declared and spat on the ground. “Pussy.”
They slouched off in the direction they came from. The boy stood and watched them go before resuming his climb, his shoulders hunched, his boots scuffing the road.
Morgan frowned as the lad drew even with the porch. He did not walk like a victor.
“Not bad.” Morgan spoke from the shadows. “But when you fight, you should fight to finish.”
The boy’s shoulders jerked in a defensive shrug. “Whatever. It’s over.”
“Over, but not done.” Morgan strolled to the top of the steps, once more in command of his body, the sea song in his head fading to a manageable roar. “The one you fought will try again.”
“What do you care?” The boy raised his chin, his gaze blazing. His eyes were the color of tarnished gold.
Recognition hit Morgan like a rock.
Finfolk eyes. Iestyn’s eyes. Morgan’s eyes, in a mortal’s face.
His breath hissed between his teeth. “Who are you?”
3
THE STRANGER’S GAZE PINNED ZACK TO THE sidewalk. “Who are you?”
Zack swallowed, taking in the hard jaw, the hard eyes, the long, black leather jacket. The guy was tall, taller even than Zack, and his arms were as big around as Emily’s head. No way was Zack going to be able to outrun him. “Who wants to know?”
The man didn’t seem to register his rudeness, which set off all kinds of alarm bells in Zack’s head. “My name is Morgan.”
No last name.
When grown-ups did that, they were usually trying to be friendly. This dude didn’t look friendly. He looked seriously badass.
“Zack. Zachary,” he mumbled, the extra syllables dragged out of him by the man’s hard stare.
His hair was really blond, Zack saw. Almost white, like his own hair before he dyed it. The thought gave him a funny feeling in his stomach.
“You live here,” the man said.
“Um . . .” Zack’s mom was always going on about giving out personal information to strangers. For once, her warnings made sense. “Yeah.”
“Where?”
The uh-oh feeling spread. “None of your business.”
The man’s mouth compressed. “What is your family?”
Not, Who are your parents? Not, What do they do?
“I have to go,” Zack said.
“Wait.”
Zack started walking. A dark blue, late model Honda CRV rumbled over the top of the hill. His mom’s CRV with his mom driving and—Zack squinted to see through the glass—his sister in the backseat.
Relief, embarrassment, and annoyance churned inside him as the vehicle braked by the curb.
The window rolled down.
“Zack?” His mom’s smile held a hint of apology, as if she knew she was babying him but couldn’t help herself. She’d worn that smile a lot lately, which made Zack feel guilty and irritated him at the same time. “Em said you might need a ride home.”
The back of Zack’s neck crawled. Without turning, he knew the guy was behind him.
“Who is this?” the man asked.
His mother’s gaze slid past him. Her smile faded completely. Her face turned white. “Get in the car.”
Zack’s gaze bounced between the man and his mom. “What’s going on?”
“Get in the car, Zack. Now.”
Out of instinct, out of habit, Zack obeyed. He hopped around to the passenger side and opened the door.
“I know you,” the stranger said slowly.
“No, you don’t.” His mother’s tone was fierce. Firm. But Zack heard the underlying high note, almost like she was scared. Like that time he hitchhiked to the beach without telling her.
“I have seen you before.”
That voice, that well-remembered voice, stroked Liz like a hand and clutched her heart.
“I have seen you before.”
Only for a couple of hours in the dark sixteen years ago. He couldn’t possibly recognize her.
The passenger door slammed as Zack got in the car.
She had recognized him right away, Liz thought. Morgan. The white-blond hair, the brutally handsome face, the strange yellow eyes were the same. He looked exactly the same. While she . . .
She took a deep breath. Well, she’d changed, hadn’t she? She was no longer a dewy, perky, naïve college student.
She was thirty-seven years old, for God’s sake. A mother. A doctor. She had borne two children and buried her husband, and her face and body carried the lines and scars of laughter and of sleepless nights, of grief and resolve.
Liz gripped the steering wheel with sweaty palms. No, he hadn’t recognized her.
“Who is this?” he had asked.
Anger caught her unprepared like a cramp, sharp and unexpected. She was what life had made her. She was the woman she had made herself, and she would protect that life, that woman, any way she could.
“Fasten your seatbelt,” she ordered Zack.
At the click of the buckle, she threw the car in gear and punched the gas. She did not look in the rearview mirror as she drove away.
“Who was that?” Emily asked from the backseat.
Zack’s father.
> No, he wasn’t. Bernardo Rodriguez was the only father her son had ever known or needed.
Zack’s sperm donor?
She couldn’t say that either.
“His name’s Morgan,” Zack said.
Emily leaned forward between the front seats. “Do you know him?”
“Sit back,” Liz instructed, nerves snapping in her voice. She concentrated on turning the corner, struggling to keep the wheels and her tone even. “Not really.”
“He said you did,” Zack said.
Back in North Carolina, she’d been desperate for her son to communicate. She’d tried card games and car trips, nonverbal communication strategies and active listening techniques without success. She’d prayed this move would shake him from his self-imposed silence. But why did he have to start talking now?
“We’ve met,” Liz admitted. “I meet lots of people. Doctors, patients, drug salesmen . . .” She was rambling. She shut up.
“Was he a patient?” Zack asked.
Oh, God.
She and Ben had agreed never to lie to Zack. He knew Ben wasn’t his biological father. Liz’s parents had cut off all emotional and financial support when she told them she was pregnant and wanted to keep her child. Ben had married her while they were both still in med school and adopted Zack a few months later. She would not impinge on her grieving son’s bond with his dead father because of a chance encounter on the street with a virtual stranger.
If this was a chance encounter. Her heart raced as if she’d injected epinephrine. What if Morgan had sought Zack out?
She drew a deep breath. She was overreacting. Morgan never even knew of Zack’s existence.
“It was a long time ago,” she answered vaguely. “What did he say to you?”
Zack slouched in his seat, staring out the window at the dark pines bordering the road. “Nothing.”
“He must have said something,” she persisted.
“He asked where we lived.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Mom.” A staccato burst of impatience.
She waited.
Zack scowled. “No, I didn’t, okay? Christ, I’m not a baby.”
He was, though. He was her baby boy, no matter how tall he grew or what kind of language, dress, or attitude he affected. “I just wanted to be sure he didn’t say anything to . . . to upset you,” Liz said carefully.
Immortal Sea Page 4
